Chapter 4

What happened after my realization that we were under the Opera is still a mystery to me. I remember feeling overwhelmed (again) and I came back to myself in the drawing room, lying on a sofa and staring at the black mask in front of me.

"Are you all right, Phillippe? Speak to me," he said, tapping the side of my face anxiously. "Come on, now, let me know you're all right."

I couldn't speak. All I could think about was a possible earthquake and then the Opera tumbling in on top of us. I could see it sinking slowly over the course of the next month due to some invisible flaw in the supports, leaving me trapped inside this odd house forever. The building above could catch fire and collapse, and we would both be crushed to death. A flood could swell the lake and drown us. Anything could happen.

He turned from me and went to a small cabinet in the corner, where he poured some dark liquid into a glass and returned with it. He knelt beside me again and pressed it against my lips, urging me to drink it down. It smelled alcoholic, and I didn't want to drink it (remembering what had happened last time after having a little wine) but I had very little choice in the matter. I choked on it, certain that I had swallowed liquid fire: It burned all the way down my throat and into my stomach, making me gasp for air.

"What was that?" I demanded, suddenly able to sit up.

"Brandy," he said very calmly, setting the now-empty glass aside. "Do you feel better?"

"Better?" I echoed, not sure how to answer him. "We're under the Opera! What if it collapses on top of us?"

He chuckled, squeezing my shoulder in reassurance. "That won't happen. I helped to build the place, and I used the safest and most secure structure possible. Besides, the cavern outside was there before the Opera was, and it's lasted for years. It's a cylinder-shaped cavern, and a cylinder is the strongest type of column there is, so we're safer down here than we are up there."

"What if it floods or catches fire?"

He stared at me then. "You sure do worry, don't you?" he said kindly, his voice softening. "Neither can happen, I've made sure, and when I said I've made sure, you can trust that. Nothing can hurt us down here."

I had to take his word for it. Once he saw that I had recovered and was feeling better, he relaxed and took a seat across from me. That was when he began to ask me questions, instead of the other way around. When was my birthday? What had I been learning in school? What books had I read? What had been my favorites? What music had I studied? Could I play any instruments or sing? Did I compose? Did I draw at all? What did I draw? What did I know about architecture? Did I know any languages other than French? Could I ride a horse? Did I know anything about medicine?

I answered all of them as best I could. My birthday was September twenty-eighth. I learned all the usual things you learned in school: Greek, Latin, grammar, mathematics, history, geography, science, and literature. Of course, I had special classes Father and Mother had asked for me to have: meetings with a music and singing tutor, and I had lessons with a fencing master. I rode with the nearby riding school, and I had my own horse at home. I could play piano and flute, and of course I could sing, and I did compose. What music had I studied? Any that I heard! (That was a given answer.) I drew a little bit, but it was mostly landscapes. I knew only a little bit about Classical architecture and Romanesque architecture (my favorite styles) but I did like some Palladian, Gothic, and Tudor styles as well. I knew school Greek, Latin, and a little Hebrew, and I had learned some English at school. Beyond that, I knew very little about languages. As for medicine, I knew that it was what you took when you were sick, and if you were sick, you asked the doctor to come see you.

Erik nodded and steepled his fingers under his chin before regarding me. "Well, it seems as if you've made a good start on a lot of things, Phillippe. Where will you go from here?"

I didn't answer that question since it seemed that he'd been asking that of himself. I stayed silent, waiting for him to come out of his brown study. When he did, he favored me with a look that said he had plans for me. What plans those were I did not want to know at the moment. He went to a writing desk and began to jot some things down on a sheet of paper, while I stayed on the sofa and impersonated a lump. I did not know what to say or how to even ask him what he was doing.

"There!" he said, handing the paper to me. "See what you think."

I stared at the paper, wondering what on earth it was. What I read was this:

architectural styles

Spanish, Russian, English, German

drawing and drafting

anatomy and physiology

herbs--preparation, uses, properties

singing

"What's this?" I asked after I'd read the list a few times.

"A plan for your education," he said, smiling at me. "By the time I was your age I had learned a good many of those things, and I was beginning to learn others. I have a strong feeling that you'll like learning those subjects once we start working on them. Was there anything else you might have an interest in? Trust me, I can teach you with no problem."

"Are you a professor or something like it?" I asked, astounded at the range of subjects he claimed to be proficient in.

"No, I am better than a professor, since most professors only specialize in one subject, and I specialize in many."

I didn't know what to say to that. Instead, I focused on the last item. "Why have you put singing? Mother taught me to sing."

He nodded. "I know she has, since I can hear it in the way you speak. But your voice can go further, and there is much untapped potential. We'll work on your voice and see if we can't get at that potential. You'll see I'm right after a few lessons."

He sounded so sure of himself: so sure I'd want his teaching, so sure I'd want to study those things, and so sure that he was right! I was beginning to be angry, but I saw no reason to be so. There was something that was bothering me, but I couldn't see it or put a name to it. Perhaps it was because he was taking my acceptance for granted. How did he know that I wouldn't hide in my room for a month? I could always do that and keep away from him, and whether he taught me or not would be a moot point.

I was ready to march into my room and lock the door behind me, but I reflected for a moment before taking action. If I did that, then what would it accomplish? Most likely nothing. He could always keep me there that month and then keep me another month to make up for the first thirty days I spent in voluntary isolation. It could bore me very quickly and drive me mad at the same time. No, that would do no good. I would have to accept his company and his teaching. I asked myself if it would really be all that bad. No, probably not. I might enjoy it: it was different from what was taught at school, and I did have some slight interest in some of the subjects. Imagine learning a language that used a foreign alphabet! The few samples of Russian writing I'd seen had been indecipherable to me, and the chance to learn how to read that was tempting. Also, a study of architecture might prove interesting.

"All right," I said at last, agreeing to the plan. "But do we have to have lessons today?" I didn't feel ready to start learning with this man just yet.

"No, we'll start the day after tomorrow. I want you to make yourself at home here first. You still look like a startled cat who seems ready to break and run at any moment," he said with a little laugh. "I'd like the fright to wear off before we start work."

Fright? Well, I supposed that I had been frightened. It was frightening to be taken somewhere by a stranger and hear that you were going to stay there for a month. Even more frightening was to hear that that stranger could be your father!

"I have a few things to do, so why don't you go ahead and write a letter to Christine and Raoul, and possibly your school friends? I know you'd like to reassure the latter and ask a few questions of the former. I'll call you for supper."

Dismissed to my room (and feeling slightly put-out, it was like I was a troublesome child being told to go play so I wouldn't bother him), I went and pulled out writing paper, envelopes, ink, pen, and sealing wax. I wrote to my friends first, saying that a friend of the family had spotted me at the Opera and I was in a little trouble, but I would see them after a while. That friend of the family had taken me home with him, and that was why I had not gone back to the hotel.

My letter to Mother and Father was more difficult to write. For a full ten minutes I sat in my chair, wondering what to write. At last, I decided not to try being polite. It was impossible, after all, and I wasn't feeling inclined to be polite. After all, this whole situation was something I'd had a right to know about, and they hadn't told me.

Dear Mother and Father,

He said he's written to you, and if you've already received his letter, then you know where I am now and who I am with and how long I am to stay here. I am all right--a little worried, because I don't know much about him, but other than that, I'm fine, physically. Mentally fine is another story.

He said that he's my father. I don't know if that is really true, but it's possible. He said that Father is not able to father children. I have black hair, and Father has brown hair, and you, Mother, have blonde hair. Logically, it's possible. Why didn't you ever TELL me? I know you had your reasons, but instead of forbidding me from the Opera, you could have told me about this man! You might have warned me! Now all of the mysterious conversations between you two make sense: the way you would change subjects when I came into the room, the way you would compare me to the memory of someone you both held in your heads; it all makes sense. I understand your comments about something not being possible--remember? The little conversation you had when we were discussing my coming to Paris? And Mother, your warning about strangers! Why didn't you tell me there was someone possibly here who might kidnap me?

I don't know what to think, now. He's firm on the length of time I'm to stay with him, and I can already tell he's as determined as I am. (An inherited trait? I don't know, both of you are as well.) He drew up a plan for my education, and some of the subjects are interesting. We eat very well since he is a remarkable cook, and he's insistent on my not getting too worked up. He sent me to my room for a rest this afternoon, and he played music to help me sleep last night. I have plenty of clothes and everything else I need, and my room has several shelves of books. (I don't know why I'm writing all this; I suppose it's because I have no one else to tell it to.) There are lots of trinkets in the cabinet here, they look like they come from somewhere out East, and he's mentioned travels. Has he traveled, Mother? Why did he? Where has he been, and where did he come from?

I would be lying if I said he didn't interest me. He interests me immensely and I would like to learn more about him, but is he safe to stay with, Mother? Something about this man frightens you both, I can tell that from the way you've acted and stayed away from Paris all these years, but what is it? Is he somewhat mad? Prone to rages? Violent? Eccentric, but harmless? What is it? He seems very civil and polite, but I know that appearances can be deceiving. To me, he is kind, and he is somewhat fatherly. He is willing to talk to me and teach me, and he's already taking incredible care of me, but what is it about him that frightens you? He wears a mask. Is that it? Is it because he hides his face that he frightens you? Or is it something else? I don't know what it is, I haven't seen anything that really frightens me (beyond being underground or kidnapped), so I can't tell if there is anything to be frightened of. Only your nervousness about my whole coming to Paris gave me a clue about this whole thing.

He's said that he'll let me write to you, and I suppose that means he'll allow me to receive letters back, so write as soon as you finish reading this. I'll be waiting to hear from you both.

Phillippe